


Hey, Doll

by grump_ass



Series: Everything Will Be Alright! [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Brooklyn Boys, Ethel!, Fluff, Historical, Introducing their Nice Orthodox Landlady, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sorry I Haven't Been On Here In Forever Life Is Wild, This Fic's Working Title Was A Day In The Life Of A Tiny Twink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 13:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14770121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grump_ass/pseuds/grump_ass
Summary: Steve only wakes up this early because Bucky accidentally kicks him when the alarm clock goes off. He hears a soft ‘sorry’ when Bucky’s lips ghost his cheek. The weight on the bed shifts as Bucky sits up. Steve can see his shadow against the faint light coming through their window, and watches Bucky slowly breathe in, shoulders drawing up to his ears. His arms come up over his head before arching out with his exhale.He moves a lot like a cat, Steve thinks.





	Hey, Doll

Steve only wakes up this early because Bucky accidentally kicks him when the alarm clock goes off. He hears a soft ‘sorry’ when Bucky’s lips ghost his cheek. The weight on the bed shifts as Bucky sits up. Steve can see his shadow against the faint light coming through their window, and watches Bucky slowly breathe in, shoulders drawing up to his ears. His arms come up over his head before arching out with his exhale. 

 

He moves a lot like a cat, Steve thinks. 

 

Bucky moves to his feet and stretches out his back before stumbling over to the dresser. 

 

“What time is it?” Steve mumbles from under the quilt.

 

“Four am. Go back to sleep,” Bucky whispers back.

 

Steve grunts at that. Bucky pulls out his work shirt and pulls it on, buttoning it down the length of his torso. Steve watches as he moves around the room, grumbling about were his pants are. 

 

“Living room floor,” Steve says.

 

“Thank you, love.” 

 

Steve closes his eyes and listens as Bucky pads around their apartment. He’s almost asleep when Bucky trots back in fully dressed. He reaches over Steve for his part of the covers and carefully drapes them over Steve. Bucky smiles down at him.

 

“How’re you feeling?” He asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

 

Steve pushes himself up, and Bucky gently rests his head on the shoulder closest to him. Steve brings a hand up to Bucky’s hair.

 

“Better,” he says, running his fingers through the top of Bucky’s hair. 

 

“That’s good.” 

 

Bucky turns his head just enough to press a kiss to Steve’s jaw. Steve lets his head fall back as Bucky makes his way up to his chin. Then his cheek, then his cheek bone, to his nose, before pressing into his lips. 

 

Steve really doesn’t want him to stop. He wants to make up for every second they spend an arms length apart in public. He wants them to stay there, frozen in this quiet part of the world.

 

Steve gently pushes him back, Bucky chasing after him for a split second.

 

“I love you too. But you gotta get to work.”

 

Bucky groans and hides his face in Steve’s neck.

 

“If I stay here, they can’t find me.”

 

“They being?”

 

Bucky shrugs.

 

With a sigh, Steve nudges him until he sits up. Bucky closes his eyes and smiles as Steve kisses his cheek. 

 

“Love ya,” Bucky whispers.

 

“I love ya too, pal,” Steve says, smiling. 

 

He doesn’t want Bucky to go. He really doesn’t.

 

“Bye, love,” Bucky says, getting up.

 

“Bye, hon.” 

 

Steve flops back and pulls the quilt back up.

 

Bucky is almost at the bedroom door when he turns back around.

 

“That picture you wanted to see is out,” he says.

 

Steve rolls his shoulders.

 

“I’ll leave you some money for it.”

 

“No, don’t do that,” Steve says, shaking his head, “I don’t need to go.”

 

“But-“

 

“I may not feel well anyways. When I get that piece finished for the magazine, I’ll pay so we both can go.” 

 

Bucky sighs.

 

“Alright,” he groans good naturedly. 

 

He winks.

 

“I’ll be back at six.”

 

“Love you.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

Bucky grins, and finally he leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Steve listens as some coins hit the kitchen counter.

 

“Ass,” Steve mumbles into his pillow. 

* * *

 

Steve was half right. He does feel better. That doesn’t mean he isn’t bent over the sink dry heaving thirty minutes after Bucky leaves. 

 

He brings tap water into his mouth, powering through the taste. He pants between gulps, heaving and retching every few drinks. Shakily, he turns the faucet off and slides to the floor. 

 

_ Okay,  _ he thinks,  _ at least that’s over. _

 

Steve is able to fully stand up after another hour without his vision swimming. When he gets to the kitchen, he sees the money Bucky left him on the counter. It’s directly on top of his sketchbook. He probably thought he’d caught him. 

 

“You’re quick,” Steve says, sliding the money onto the counter.

 

He takes his sketchbook over to the table where he had his art supplies last night. The pastels are still open; Bucky helped him to bed last night when Steve started coughing so hard he cried. 

 

Steve peels the sketchbook open and picks up the pastel he left on the table. As he works, he feels the nausea drain out of him. He started drawing because of that; he could forget how he felt when he was working. 

 

By the time the piece is finished, Steve realizes he feels better. Better enough to actually drop it off. He gets changed as quickly as possible and carefully cuts the ad out of the sketchbook. His portfolio is hidden under a pile of first drafts on the living room table. He tucks the page into the folder, which he puts in his bag. For a second, he stares at the money on the counter. 

 

Then he opens the door and leaves.

* * *

 

The walk uptown is quiet. A group of kids are playing in the street, sun glinting off of the can passing between their feet. One of them look up as Steve passes by, and he waves. The kid looks back down at the can and kicks at it. 

 

Up a ways, Steve spots the landlady limping down the sidewalk with a bag of groceries in her arms. He hurries over to her.

 

“Ethel,” he says.

 

“Steven,” she replies, shifting her bag, “How are you, dear?”

 

“I’m alright. Can I help you with those?”

 

“Would you?”

 

Steve takes the bag and lets Ethel wrap her arm around his. He leads her back the way he came as she talks. 

 

“Thank you, dear, these old bones don’t quite work the way that they used to.”

 

“I can imagine,” Steve says, trying to bump the groceries more securely into the crook of his arm.

 

“When I was your age, I could run and run and run. I used to carry Mendel on my back when he was younger. Now I can’t even carry my own groceries.” 

 

“Don’t worry about that. What’d you get?”

 

“Oh,” she says, placing a hand on Steve’s arm, “Well, I picked up some lamb from the butchers. And then I got eggs for that Challah recipe you boys love so much.”

 

“The six strand poppy seed Challah?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“You know us best, Ethel.”

 

“You two should come to dinner on Shabbat. Mendel will be bringing Anya and the girls.” 

 

“That,” Steve says, letting go of Ethel so she can unlock her door, “Would be lovely.”

 

“Then I’ll see you for dinner. James knows when to be there by.” 

 

“Alright. Do you need me to bring in your groceries?”

 

“I’ll be just fine, dear, thank you. And I’ll bring that Challah by later today. Take care now!”

 

“You too, Ethel.” 

 

Steve makes sure she’s locked the door (she has three bolts on it) before going back up the street. The kids are gone now, having migrated to an abandoned alleyway down the way. He can hear them shouting as he walks away, listening as the sound of a tin can hitting a boot fades away. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky comes home looking more exhausted than usual. As in, just dragging his feet past the doorway before he slams his back against the door to close it, fumbling for the lock. Steve knows he’s tired when Bucky makes his way over and kisses his forehead. 

 

“Buck, hey, what’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, doll. Why?”

 

“You seem tired,” Steve says, ignoring the part of him that screams that Bucky kissed him before cleaning up, which he never does. 

 

“Yeah, it was hard today. I’m gonna go take a bath.” 

 

“I got the water started for you. It should be cool enough now.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“And I’ve got dinner almost done,” Steve offers, watching Bucky drop his toolbag as he stumbles for the bathroom.

 

“Okay, Stevie.”

 

Steve waits until the door closes to start wringing his hands. Because something is wrong with Bucky, really wrong, and Steve can’t just make spaghetti like nothing is wrong when, clearly, something is very wrong. His brain is swimming with any number of horrible ideas; someone died, Bucky got fired, he got drafted, he’s hurt and hiding it, etcetera and etcetera. 

 

Steve desperately wishes that Bucky was in school now. Not taking care of Steve; just in classes, learning about engineering and attending lectures, instead of wasting away on a line in the heat and screeching drills. But he’s not in school; he’s in the bathtub, exhausted and beat up. The bathwater is gonna look like mud by the time Bucky is done, and it’s going to drive him crazy, but he isn’t going to wash himself twice like he wants to or like his brain screams at him to, because they have bills and another bath is a luxury they can’t afford Right This Minute.

 

Steve turns the stove off and goes to the bathroom.

 

“Hey, Buck,” he calls through the door.

 

“Yeah, Stevie?”

 

“Do you need to shave tonight?”

 

“Probably. Why?” 

 

“Do you want me to do it?”

 

The water splashes a bit, and Steve hears Bucky’s skin drag on the sides of the tub.

 

“Yes, please.”

 

“Okay. Let me know when you need me.”

 

“Alright, doll.”

 

Steve drains the pasta and puts it back on the stove top to stay warm in the time it takes Bucky to finish bathing and drain the tub. Steve opens the bathroom door to Bucky sitting on the edge of the tub in a towel, water dripping off the ends of his hair. Their shave kit sits on the counter, just out of Bucky’s view. 

 

Steve starts up the lather and slathers it across Bucky’s jaw and cheeks, carefully cleaning it from his mouth before rinsing his hands and taking the razor.

 

“Just hold still, hon,” Steve whispers before taking it to Bucky’s chin, one shaking hand on his bare shoulder.

 

Bucky can’t shave himself. It drives him crazy, Steve knows, but he can’t ignore his brain. He told Steve once that sometimes all he could think about was the blade, and his throat, and  _ what if he just moved his head real fast when he was shaving and let the razor do the rest? _

 

So, Steve shaves him now.

 

It’s nice. He likes how quiet these moments are, how peaceful and content Bucky looks getting a shave and having Steve touching his face. Occasionally he sways towards Steve’s hand, searching for steadier contact, and Steve brings his hand up to Bucky’s hair to keep himself from messing up the lather on him. His skin is still pink and warm from his bath, the water in the tub draining away with all the grime that coated his body just minutes earlier. 

 

Bucky exhales through his nose when Steve finishes, letting him clean his face with a towel. To his relief, Steve doesn’t find any cuts or nicks on Bucky’s cheeks, and he leans in and kisses him. Bucky sags into him, putting his hands on Steve’s shoulders. 

 

Steve pulls back.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“‘M just peachy,” Bucky mumbles as he presses his face into Steve’s shoulder. 

 

“Really? Do you promise?” 

 

“Yeah, doll. Just tired.”

 

Steve doesn’t believe him. But if Bucky isn’t going to talk, then he can’t very well make him. So he kisses Bucky’s temple and gets up.

 

“Let’s have dinner then, and you can go to bed.”

 

“Yeah, alright,” Bucky says, getting up, “I’m gonna get dressed.”

 

“Just come to the kitchen when you’re ready.”

 

“Mhm.” 

 

When they sit down at the table later, Steve does his best to catch Bucky up on the day.

 

“I got the ad in, and they liked it. Said I should be getting more stuff from them in the future.”

 

“That’s great, Stevie.”

 

“Yeah, I put the check on the counter,” Steve says, watching Bucky flinch a little at that, “Because, you know, we both live here and money is money.”

 

“Yeah, but-“ 

 

“No, shut your mouth, I’ve got one more thing. I saw Ethel on my way down, and she invited us over for Shabbat. She got the stuff for her poppy seed Challah.”

 

Bucky perks up at that. 

 

“We need to go,” Bucky says.

 

“I told her we would,” Steve agrees.

 

Bucky smiles, and looks at his plate.

 

“I love her,” he chuckles, twirling some pasta around his fork.

 

“Me too, honey.”

 

They finish dinner quietly, with Steve taking the dishes to the sink and motioning Bucky away from the sink when he tries to take over. After a light argument that consists mostly of  _ ‘Go to bed!’  _ and  _ ‘Steve, you already made dinner,’ _ Bucky goes to their room and lets Steve finish up.

 

Steve doesn’t like being the one who stays at home. He doesn’t like his monthly contributions being a few envelopes that make almost as much money as Bucky does in day for less hard work. But if he can’t work, and he can’t fight, then by God, he’s gonna do the dishes so Bucky doesn’t have to.

 

He gets ready for bed quickly, Bucky already in bed, covers up to his chest. His eyes are almost closed, but as soon as Steve walks in they flash open. Steve turns off the light and crawls in besides him. Bucky wraps his arms around Steve and pulls him close. Steve brings his arm back and over Bucky’s shoulder and a hand to his cheek. They look at eachother in the dim room, and then Steve leans up and kisses him. Bucky goes limp, laying close enough that Steve can fully turn around while maintaining the kiss and stroking his hair and back. Steve pulls off with soft inhale, and Bucky immediately goes to kissing Steve’s chin. 

 

Steve angles his head away and goes to Bucky’s neck, pressing light kisses down the length before making his way back up to Bucky’s jaw. Bucky turns his head slightly so that their lips can make contact once again, and Steve returns to stroking his back. When Bucky pulls back to breathe, he tucks his head under Steve’s chin and buries his face in his throat.

 

“I love you,” he hums into Steve.

 

“I love you more,” Steve says, grinning.

 

It’s quiet. It’s nice. And Steve knows something is wrong, but Bucky is falling asleep, and Steve just wants to pretend that everything is alright, if not perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr at grump-ass! Thanks for reading!


End file.
